


Screw It and Do It

by TheMouthKing



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drinking, Epistolary, Facetime, Fancy Panties, First Time, I promise, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Sexting, Smut, Texting, Tropetastic Tuesday, gagging, it will get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-12 13:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11163252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMouthKing/pseuds/TheMouthKing
Summary: The girls are out of town. The boys spend the night drinking in their respective homes, to unwind. One thing leads to another.





	1. Sexting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annabelle_leigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabelle_leigh/gifts).



> This is written like an iMessage conversation. 
> 
> You're looking at Rhett's screen. That means Rhett's on the Right, Link's on the Left. 
> 
> Link is in Rhett's phone as Chiasquatch. (You never see it, but Rhett is in Link's phone as Shahbaz.)
> 
> When there's a long enough pause, iMessage drops a new time stamp in the conversation. 
> 
> When there's a short pause, there's a space between the lines. 
> 
> Thanks to annabelle_leigh for her terrible, wonderful ideas and enabling.
> 
> Rick and Morty is a shout out to Crazyquantum. <3

document

noun | doc·u·ment \ˈdä-kyə-mənt\  
Legal Definition of document  
1:  a writing (as a deed or lease) conveying information — see also instrument  
2(a):  something (as a writing, photograph, or recording) that may be used as evidence

 

 

 

**Chiasquatch**

 

 **Today** 5:13 PM

 

Wanna do something while the girls are out of town?

 Not tonight, man.

Gonna just have a couple drinks and unwind. 

Mkay.

Lemme know if you change your mind.

 Kk.

 

 

 **Today** 5:59 PM

 

What was that show you were talking about?

The one on Netflix.

Not the gross one

The one you said the treasure hunt reminded you of.

Rick and Morty.

That's on Hulu not Netflix

Oh right!

Thanks

 

 

 **Today** 9:27 PM

 

[Photograph. It's Rhett from the chest to the knees. He's slumped down on the sofa, legs spread, easy. His t-shirt’s rucked up exposing a line of bare skin around his middle. The most noteworthy part of the picture is that his thighs are bare and he's wearing panties. Specifically, fancy panties.

They’re white and sheer with red ruffles across the hips. But they're sheer where it counts.

It’s obvious that he's a little hard. Obvious, too, that there's a little damp patch in that sheer fabric, and being white it’s translucent. The bulge is framed by the spread of his big hand, fingers and thumb resting _just there_.]

 **Read** 9:28 PM

 

[Ellipses appear at 9:28 PM and disappear.] 

[Ellipses appear at 9:41 PM and disappear.]

[Ellipses appear at 9:42 PM and disappear.]

 

 

 **Today** 9:53 PM

 

[Photograph. It's a similar pose in a different room. It's Link with the front of his dark jeans open, showing a peek of dark blue underwear. His hands aren't in the shot, but he's also definitely partly hard.

He's tucked his half-empty beer between his legs. He probably thinks he's funny with the phallic prop.]

 

 

 **Today** 9:57 PM

 

[Photograph. Same pose, but this shot shows more of his soft, lightly haired belly.

What draws the eye though is that the (now more than half-hard) erection has been adjusted. The head is visible poking from beneath the elastic waistband, damp and leaking.]

 **Read** 9:57 PM

 

 

 **Today** 10:01 PM

 

What are you doing?

Whats it look like I'm doin

 

[Photograph. Link hasn't moved but he's hard in his jeans, in his briefs. His t-shirt is pulled up, jeans pushed down a little more, and his cock is similarly oriented, pointed up towards his belly. It's completely covered in dark blue fabric. He's made a point to keep it that way.

His hand is cupping himself through his boxer briefs, fingers curled around it, thumb laying against the head through dark fabric that hugs the damp head like cling wrap.]

This? 

Yeah

Exactly that

 

 

 **Today** 10:09 PM

 

Let me see

 

[Live Photograph. It's a three second shot that plays when Link presses his thumb down on the screen of his phone. Rhett slides his big hand down the front of his panties and takes his cock in his palm and gives it a squeeze.

There's audio. Fabric rustling, the brush of skin against skin, a sharp intake of breath.] 

 **Read** 10:11 PM

 

 

 **Today** 10:13 PM

 

[Short Video. Maybe Link can't figure out Live photos.

His cock is out and his hand is moving over the length of it, slow. At the top of the move there's a twist of his wrist, thumb rubbing at the slit. It's slick with precum. He's so hard it's obscene.

He moans. The image shakes and the video cuts out.]

 

Omg.

Fuck

That’s so hot

Yea? ;)

 

Touch yourself for me

Show me what u like

 

 

 **Today** 10:16 PM

 

[Short Video. Rhett knows he needs more than the three seconds a Live photo allows.

His cock is free from the sheer fabric bunched up beneath. It’s slick with lube or maybe lotion, his fingers too, shining with it. They're curled in a tight fist and he’s stroking himself fast and hard.

There's audio. His breath is rough and ragged, and there's the slick, wet sound of his hand moving.]

 

Slow down 

Ok

I mean it

Show me ur slowing down

Its your turn

 

 

 **Today** 10:21 PM

 

[Short Video. His hand is loosely fisted around his achingly hard cock. It's red in stark contrast to his hands, which usually shake. If they are now it's lost in the motion, the slow, deliberate up and down of each stroke.

 It's instructional. _Like this_ is implied, like a guiding hand.

There's a soft sigh before the video cuts, like it’s all he can do to hold back more sound.]

 Show me

 

[Short Video. The image is shaking and then it stabilizes, the phone apparently bracing against his belly.

 His hand moves slow, slower. Evidently he’s  struggling to match the pace Link set. His breathing is labored and there's voice in it, not words or moans but _sound_ that's obviously _Rhett_.]

 

Good..

Feel good?

Yeah

It does

 

WAnna be touching u instead 

Fuck

Wanna hear u

Loud andmoaningg

Shit. Rhet

Fuck im so hard Link

So close

Just thinkin abt u

Just watching that last video

Wanna see you

See you cum

 

 

10:29 PM

 

**Chiasquatch**

 

FaceTime…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Decline                     Accept

 

 

 

 


	2. FaceTime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhett answers the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An idea hit me after RileyRooin messaged me about reading this, so she can take some of the blame. Inspiration credit goes to the things on Tumblr that have been going around today about [how they don't say hello to each other and the reasons why](https://themouthking.tumblr.com/post/162259045959/alt-er-otp-mythicalpatterns). Also low-key inspired by the [Swapping Bodies with a Mannequin](https://youtu.be/tn2nsJAfDfQ) episode of GMM.

With the soft, musically electronic sound of the call engaging, video takes over the screen. 

It’s their faces at first. For each of them it’s their own, small in the lower corner, and the other taking up most of the screen. It’s an unflattering up-angle but no one’s complaining. 

Rhett’s feed turns first with the tap of a thumb, flips to the rear-facing camera. The image swims as he moves it, frames his cock in the shot, his hand curled loosely around the base. 

“Turn it,” Rhett’s voice is eager and demanding, leaves no room for argument.

“I’m trying,” Link’s frustrated. He’s struggling with his phone, with the technology. He doesn’t FaceTime much at all. He flips the image a few times, back and forth between his face and his dick before he calms down, slows down, settles the image where it’s wanted. 

In the fumbling of making the call and answering, of getting the images oriented the way they needed to be, they’d both all but stopped touching themselves. That changes now, though. Rhett’s falling back into the too-fast rhythm, picking up where he’d left off before Link had told him to slow down, before he’d demanded proof that he was being good, that he was obeying. 

It’s Link that moans, though. Like it was Rhett’s hand on Link’s dick, like they were in the same room with their hands in the other’s lap, jerking each other off after a night spent drinking knee to knee. 

“Slower,” Link breathes, circling his fingers and thumb around the base of his cock, trying to will himself to calm down just a little bit because _dear God_ , if Rhett keeps that up he’s going to come before the call’s even been connected for thirty seconds. It doesn’t occur to him that it’s not normal to watch someone else bringing themselves off and feel it the way he feels this. Like he’s watching his own hand on his own dick or his hand on Rhett’s, or… any combination of hands and bodies. It’s just a video call but it’s starting to swim together, muddying in his mind, but the edges of where the one ends and the other begins have been blurred for years. 

Link should have expected that this would be intense. Would be _so_ fucking intense. 

Somehow, watching Link’s hand as he steels himself against his own response to the onslaught of Rhett’s hand moving like this is a race is enough for Rhett to be able to step back. The next stroke comes slow, a long, deliberate drag from root to tip and back again. 

“Yeah, like that,” Link coos like it was a move done to him, like he’s telling Rhett how he likes it. What feels good. Link keeps pace with him and for a few moments it feels like Rhett’s the one guiding their hands. 

The longer they go though, the more obvious it becomes that Link’s taking the lead. It’s subtle but they both feel it, the way Rhett falls into line with the little sweeps of Link’s thumb, mimicking every move with just a half-second of delay. Lets himself be guided by the rhythm Link’s setting. 

It feels to Rhett like it’s Link’s hand on him. Like he’s at the mercy of this slow and steady. He can’t break away from it, physically can’t move faster than Link’s hand moves on the screen. He groans with the need for _more_ , the sound more breath than anything, and he squirms his hips. Like the only way around this slow pace is to buck against his own hand in his lap like it’s Link holding him back. 

“Faster, Link, please…” Rhett’s voice is barely recognizable. Raw, as if from overuse, or from desperately trying to bite back sound. 

“Lemme hear you,” Link rumbles and gives himself a squeeze that Rhett mirrors reflexively. A squeeze that draws a choked gasp from the taller man. 

“Fuck…” Rhett had wanted to hear _Link_ and now the tables are turned. Now Link’s the one demanding, the one in control. The one saying he wanted to hear Rhett, loud and moaning. The demand feels like permission to let go.

Rhett’s not usually loud, but he is now. He’s breathing hard and vocal in time with their hands, this undercurrent of frustration beneath it because Link isn’t relenting. Isn’t giving it to him faster. He’s just towing the line, torturing him with these slow, deliberate pumps of his fist. 

He can practically feel Link’s slender fingers gripping his dick. His belly is taut and he’s fucking his fist as much as he’s stroking himself, desperate to eke out as much friction from this pace as is humanly possible. 

“Jesus,” Link whispers, voice soft like a prayer. Like what he’s seeing on his screen is blowing his mind. Like he’s committing it to memory for later, for a thousand other moments when he’s alone with his hand on his dick. 

Then it’s faster. Link leads the way, picks up the pace, and Rhett makes this gasping sigh like relief and pours himself into it. _Faster_ , and his breathing is hard, loud. Desperate. 

“Do that again,” Rhett breathes when Link twists his fist, and he does it too, their hands moving together in a mirror image of the other. It’s messing with them, and maybe the alcohol’s to blame but that’s not what’s really going on here. 

It’s an extension of everything else about them. It’s like how they never say hello, never need to say goodbye, because it’s like saying hello or goodbye to yourself. It’s like sitting shoulder to shoulder because personal space doesn’t exist with yourself. It’s one’s hand finding the other’s knee because it’s the same thing as resting it on your own. It’s like there is no space between them, no line that separates. 

“You like that?” Link tries to tease, but his voice is too affected and he falls short. He’s too close to be real effective. His voice is picking up that warm, honeyed hint of southern drawl the further they go, like he’s sinking down deeper into himself with every passing second. 

“Answer me,” he presses when Rhett doesn’t answer, when all he hears is the harsh staccato of his breath as their hands speed up in tandem. 

Rhett’s voice is broken when he does, when he manages it. “…yeah. I like that.” 

“Yeah,” Link echoes back, approving. They’re a feedback loop. They always have been, one fueling the other fueling the first, round and around ever higher, ever more intense. Like late nights spent planning their futures, their excitement mounting the more they talk, filling notebooks with ideas. That’s what this is too. Rhett’s need feeding Link’s. Link’s approval settling in Rhett, bone deep. There’s no off switch between them, they’re just a circuit. Electric, live wire, endlessly firing. 

“‘m gonna cum,” Rhett warns. He’s shaking, cock leaking, visible with every pass of his fingers. Link can see his thighs tremble, can see the feed shaking, giving away the tremor of his hand. 

“Yeah,” Link encourages. “Cum for me, bo.”

_“—oh fuck…”_

“Say my name…”

Their hands are racing, that matched pace all but lost in the mad frenzy to finish. 

“ _Link_.”

“ _ **Yes**_.”

“Fuck, Link, I can’t. It’s too much, I—” He wishes Link were here beside him. Atop him, the weight of his body anchoring this restlessness shaking through his limbs. Holding him down so he doesn’t escape the confines of his skin. 

“Don’t you dare,” Link’s voice is a vice grip on his mind, on his cock. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Rhett… you’re gonna cum for me.”

Completely out of the blue and seemingly out of tone for the moment, “Don’t tell me what to do, _Neal_.”

There’s amusement in his voice around the edges, but mostly there’s this need to push back. Like he’d been pushed too far and needed to regain his footing. In the end, it’s all moot because there’s not enough sass on the planet to stop the crash they’re speeding towards. The collision hits them both hard and, later, they don’t know which of them came first. Not because it happened at the same time, but because it was hard to sort out who was who. If they were watching or feeling it, experiencing it or bearing witness.

Silence settles over them and with it, stillness. Just the slow evenness of their breath returning to normal.

The connection is open between them, showing the mess they’ve made of each other. Link’s cleaned his knuckles off on his t-shirt while Rhett’s hand lays limp and filthy in his lap. Neither of them have made a move to end the call. Rhett’s thumb is hovering over the button to flip the cameras, to bring the image from back to front. Link’s is, too. Neither of them knows the other is hesitantly considering it too. Thinking _‘should I?’_ and waiting for the other to make the move. To say something first. To make it okay to look this in the face. 


	3. Denial Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the phone call, Rhett takes desperate measures.

Link hit end.

He was just about to flip the camera but at the last second he chickened out and bailed. He just couldn't face this, after… everything. He felt this strange hollowness, like all the need and feeling at the start has gone out with the tide and left him dry.

Afterwards is time for holding or being held. It helps ground him, settle back into his skin again. Lets what he'd wanted at the start be okay, after the fact, when it's all said and done.

With just the phone in his hand after, and the sudden weight of _what the fuck have we done?_ resting heavy on his chest, he has to cut the line between them. He needs time and space to process, to figure this out. To make it okay.

But alone, without reassurance or the warmth of someone else beside him -- without Rhett beside him -- it doesn’t get okay. He’s wading into guilt and shame and staying there like it’s home.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about it the next day.

Not a single goddamn word.

The first day was incredibly awkward and everyone knew _something_ was going on, but no one knew what. It was like there was a wall between them, like they were both magnets oriented north, like there was this automatic inclination to keep a buffer of space between them. One that’s never, ever been present.

It’s a few days later, and they still haven’t talked about it. Rhett leaves the panties in question on Link’s office chair and texts him a picture of it to force the inevitable conversation sooner than later, because he can’t handle anymore _later._ This whole thing’s been coming too long. All of it. Maybe he’s the only one who feels it, but he doesn’t think he is. It hadn’t taken Link much convincing to get him on the same page, to get his hand in his pants, sending pictures and video. It had been Link who’d initiated the FaceTime call. Gotten bossy, gave direction, slowed it down to savor it.

Rhett wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t something on Link’s mind. Not anymore, not after he had been there with him. Seen the need in his texts and the spaces between, how hard Link had been, how goddamn eager.

This was real and if it was a one time thing, Rhett had to know. But if it wasn’t… he had to know that too.

As the picture message is sent with that tell-tale _bloop_ , he positions himself in his own chair, opposite Link’s, to wait for his arrival.

Which doesn’t come. The message gets read almost immediately, but there’s no response. Rhett’s sure that means he’s coming, walking down the hall, giving excuses to whoever he’s talking with, but time stretches on and _nothing._

Some ten minutes later, Rhett’s still tapping his phone to keep the screen awake when finally the ellipses appear.

 

**Chiasquatch**

 

 **Today** 2:11 PM

 

Ha.

Not funny. Get rid of it.

No.

I’m not asking.

Didn’t think you were.

Get rid of it. Now. I’m not messing around.

Make me.

 

If nothing else, that did it. _Make me_. A taunt Link can’t ignore. But then, that’s why Rhett said it. It had been calculated to get the exact response he wanted out of Link To get a goddamn rise out of him and to get his ass through the office door so they could have this out.

The door slammed open, bouncing on its hinges against the wall before Link can grab the knob and slam it back shut. When Link’s angry, he’s not subtle. Like he can’t find it in him to give a damn if people know he’s upset. But he’s got to. Once he’s got the door shut Link’s got to keep his voice down because this is the very last thing he’d wanted to have out at work.

He doesn’t lock the door behind him. People would have to be stupid to follow him in after the way he’d stormed out of the conference room. He doesn’t have to set another foot closer to the desks to see that those white and red lace panties are still sitting there, all neatly laid out in his chair.

“I said to get rid of them,” Link repeats himself, not moving from the safety of the doorway.

“I said make me,” Rhett pushes back, sitting in his swivel chair, facing the door, facing Link.

Link’s expression recoils. His lips curl, angry. He closes his eyes, trying to stop himself from acting out. He turns his head away, like he can’t even bear to look at Rhett. Like he needs a second to calm himself.

“I’m not doing this with you, Rhett. You get rid of those damn panties _now_ , or else I’m gonna hit you,” Link’s not joking. He’s standing there with shoulders squared, hands at his sides clenched and unclenching. Rhett can tell he wants to hit him, wants to haul off and shove him. He wants to collide against Rhett, wants something that’s more acceptable in lieu of what he won’t let himself want.

Rhett’s been there. He was there for _years_ , damn near two solid goddamn decades, taking Link down in choke holds just to press up against him.

Link’s decades behind him, but of course he is. Slow to figure it out, and now that he has, it’s not something he can let himself want.

Rhett schools his expression at the phrasing of that request, eyes glittering darkly as he lets his hands fall heavy on his thighs, drawing Link’s attention there. “What panties?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Rhett! Those fucking lacy panties, get them out of this fucking office, or I swear to god--”

Link falls silent suddenly because things stop computing. Rhett’s hands drag up his thighs and he’s drawing the zip of his fly down slow.

“What the fuck, Rhett.”

But he didn’t say no, didn’t tell him to stop. So Rhett continues, unzips himself and shimmies his jeans down enough to make it obvious that the lacy white and red panties sitting out on Link’s chair aren’t the only lacy panties in the room. The ones he’s wearing under his clothes are this deep forest green with black ruffled lace. Then, raising up enough to do so, he keeps on pushing his jeans down.

“You said you wanted the lacy panties out of the office. Well, I’m just doing what you asked. I gotta get ‘em off before I get ‘em out.”

“Put your pants back on.”

Rhett looks up at him then, fixes him with this sarcastic look that Link wants to slap right off his face. “Now I’m confused… first you want the lacy panties out of the office, now you want them to stay.”

“You knew what I meant, Rhett! I want them out of my chair. I don’t give a fuck what’s in your pants.”

“Okay, sure, if that’s what you wanna believe.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“Well, obviously I don’t, why don’t you fucking enlighten me?”

“I mean, unless you were simultaneously sending dick pics back and forth with somebody _else_ at the same exact time, certain parts of you pretty _obviously_ liked what was in my pants.”

That does it. That’s the line.

Rhett can practically see Link’s blood boiling. He’s so goddamn angry, he looks like he’s going to bubble over and explode, like he’s about to lose his mind. It’s clear this isn’t something he’s thought about, not really. That as soon as he’d hung up the call (which he’d also placed, mind you) he pushed it all back down and tried to brush it aside.

But Rhett’s done living like that. “No response to that, because it’s true.”

“Fuck you, Rhett.”

Rhett reacts to the words like they were physical, like they had matter and mass. Like rocks with the weight of them, but not the way one might expect. His eyebrows raise and there’s a hint of a smirk like he’s choosing to take the slung barb as an invitation rather than an insult.

“Put your pants back on.” Link repeats himself.

“You’re gonna have to make me,” Rhett’s voice is low and dark. Daring Link to do something rather than just stand there with his back plastered to the door.

“Stop saying that, you’re not fucking twelve years old.”

Rhett can tell he’s pushing every last one of Link’s buttons. He stares at him dead in the eye as he shifts his weight on the chair and pushes his jeans down just an inch more like he’s daring Link to ignore _this_. He’d known it was going to be effective before he did it, but he couldn’t have known just how effective it was going to be until Link crossed the room in angry long-legged strides to bridge the distance between them. The second he’s close enough he’s trying to do just that -- trying to yank Rhett’s jeans back up and into place. It’s not working well for him considering the fact that Rhett’s still sitting down.

What he’s succeeding in doing is half-pulling Rhett out of his chair. With each tug the chair moves on its wheels and Rhett’s fighting back, trying to hold his ground. He’s got his feet down on the floor like anchors and he’s gripping the arms of the chair.

“Stand up!”

“You know, I can really tell how much you don’t give a fuck what’s in my pants,” Rhett says, breathing labored from the scuffle.

Link’s so close he’s practically on him, and something about what he’d just said gives Link the sudden surge of adrenaline he needed to haul Rhett up and onto his feet. Standing, Rhett stumbles forwards, catching himself against Link until he’s regained his balance.

“Stop being such an asshole and put your pants on.”

“You do it,” Rhett says. He’s not fighting him anymore, he’s just refusing to give. Link wants his pants on? Then he’s going to have to put them up.

If asked later what the thought process was behind this tactic, Rhett wouldn’t be able to answer. It doesn’t make sense and it’s hardly mature, but it’s all he can think of right now. It was clear this wasn’t something Link could face just by having a conversation, so he’d had to take drastic measures.

Link didn’t want this to happen. Didn’t think it would. He’d betted that Rhett would eventually relent. Shy away from this thing they’ve been edging towards and go back to ignoring it. But he’s not. Maybe he should have known that Rhett wasn’t capable of leaving well enough alone.

“ _Fine_ ,” Link says, his tone biting and bitter as he squares off with Rhett, locking eyes with him so he doesn’t have to look down _there_ while he does it. But somehow that makes it worse, makes it more intimate. He can’t see what he’s doing and he’s tugging Rhett’s pants up by feel while he stares him down. His expression meant to be a punishment all its own.but Link only manages to hold the upper hand until he’s gotta figure out how to fasten them up.

Link doesn’t even think about it when it’s his own jeans, his hands just move over the buttons and zip, automatic. It’s a whole different thing when the pants are on someone else. He’s taken jeans _off_ of people before, but this was different. He’d dressed his kids when they were little, pulling at mostly-elastic waisted pants or fighting the occasional zip up jeans onto a wiggly little kid. Completely different than trying to zip the fly of your best friend of thirty years who’s playing some insane game of lacy panty chicken. Like if he just fills the room with enough goddamn panties then Link will break.

He’s got to look down to manage it. Button or zip first? He’s never had to think about the process of it before now, and even as he goes for the button he’s wondering if he should have gone for the zip instead. He’s doing his best not to touch Rhett while he zips him back in, but it’s hard because, well, Rhett’s _hard_.

He really ought to… tuck him back in before he goes to zip. If it was his own body, he’d dip a hand down the front to arrange himself safely before pulling the zip up. But it’s not his body. It doesn’t change the fact that the temptation is there, easy to pass off as kindness and completely ignore the ache tingling through his palms to _touch_.

Link’s hands are shaking and he’s only just barely gotten the button done because it’s awkward. Instead of doing anything like _tucking_ , instead he roughly tugs and shakes the waist of Rhett’s jeans with the intention of jostling him back into place before he zips him up, removing any need to touch him more than he already is.

That’s the last straw. It’s more than Rhett can handle to be this close and know that Link wants to yield but stubbornly _won’t_. He’s known Link so long that he’s pretty confident he knows the other man better than he knows himself.

How certain is he about this? Does Rhett know it or does he want it to be true? There’s a limit here, a line he’s walking, and it’s a dangerous balance.

“‘Slower.’”

Link almost jumps out of his skin, not expecting Rhett to say something now, let alone _that_. He looks up, confused, color rising in his face and his heart beating out of his chest -- it has the desired effect. Link slows his hand on the zip. “What?”

“‘Yeah, like that.’”

Rhett’s repeating things Link had said to him that night, when he’d called him. Link had called _him_ , he had placed the fucking call. He’d wanted it badly enough to initiate that next step, so eager his fingers fumbled to flip the camera orientation.

Link’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, thinking that he’s talking about the pants. But suddenly it clicks, something about Rhett’s tone, like he’s imitating Link. Like he’s revisiting the mood of the moment, voice dipped low to taunt him.

“Rhett.” Link’s upset and it twists through his voice as he says that single word, Rhett’s name. Upset to be called out like this, to have to face it. His skin burns hot as he’s thrown face to face with his words, the things he’d said in the heat of the moment.

“ _‘Lemme hear you,_ ” Rhett pushes on, trying (and failing) to keep the desperation out of his voice, the frantic need for Link to hear what it is he’s really saying. Trying not to choke on the words Link had said in invitation and command. Words seared in Rhett’s memory the way they’d come into it, with the punctuation of his hand on his dick.

It feels like a push, anyway. Like Rhett’s leaning into him, into his space, stealing the last threads of his control. He’s not pushing really, no more than can be done with words. He’s not moving, not lifting a finger to interrupt or encourage Link to do anything different, not edging into his space even remotely. He’s walking a dangerous line, but the truth is he’s already tripped up. Already fallen.

“Knock it off,” Link gives Rhett a shove, his pants not quite done up but he no longer cares. This isn’t something he can do, it’s too dangerous. They’re too close to this. But then, that’s what Rhett wanted, wasn’t it?

Rhett doesn’t let himself be shoved off. Instead, he catches Link by the wrist and forearm, wherever he can catch him, and shoves him back. “That’s not what you said the other night.”

Link flinches at that. This is too much, he can’t handle this, Rhett practically inside his head the way he always is but about _this_. “Yeah?” Shove. “You got everything I said committed to memory?”

“Like you fucking don’t,” Rhett’s big hand lands square in the middle of Link’s chest, pushes him off.

“I don’t.” He felt the need to answer, rather than push again, tell him to quit it. Felt like he needed to explain himself, like there was something to explain. That and the flash of something in Link’s eyes, the way he can’t quite look at Rhett. It tells him that he’s closer to the truth than Link’s comfortable with.

“Tell me you don’t think about it.”

“Screw you, Rhett.” _Push_.

“Tell me! Say it to my face,” Rhett shakes Link’s hands off him but doesn’t push back, lets Link crowd him back against the nearest wall. Allowing Link his need to maintain control. “Tell me you don’t think about what happened the other night. Tell me you regret it, that you sincerely wish it never happened and don’t wanna talk about it again, _ever_ , and we won’t. I’ll get the fucking panties off your chair and it’ll be like this never happened.”

Link stands there, staring. Looking up at him in silence for what feels like the longest time. It’d be easy to put an end to this. Rhett’s given him the answer, the way out. All he’s got to do is tell him he doesn’t want to talk about this, that the other night had been a mistake, and this is over.

Link’s hand comes up to Rhett’s chest again and the taller man moves to block another shove because that’s what he’s come to expect, today anyway. Link’s hand fists in his shirt and he uses the grip to pull them closer. Rhett’s slow to catch on, still anticipating another shove, arms curled up defensively like this has escalated and Link’s gonna hit him. But that’s not what comes.

They collide, not with fists but mouths. It’s exactly what Rhett and hoped for but the last thing he’d expected, and it means he doesn’t react right away. He reels, shocked by the desperation he feels from Link after all this denial. Nothing could have prepared Rhett for the reality of Link kissing him like he wanted to devour him.

Link’s hands are rough against him, still shoving, but he’s not trying to push him away anymore. He’s trying to push Rhett up against the wall, to hold him there pinned. Rhett has to be pushed more than once to stay put because once this starts he wants his hands on Link, wants to surge forward and wrap around him, seize the opportunity to take everything he’d wanted to take the other night but hadn’t been able to.

Link doesn’t want that. Wants this but not more, because every time Rhett tries to get a hand on him Link’s catching him by the wrist and wrestling it away. This isn’t a game that would have worked twenty years ago, even five years ago, but Link’s caught up on him in terms of strength. All Rhett wants is to rake his fingers through Link’s hair, to reach out and find skin beneath his clothes, but Link won’t let him touch.

“Link--” Rhett gasps when their lips part. There’s maybe more on his mind but he can’t manage to get the words out.

Link glances down between them, his hands finding the fly of Rhett’s jeans again before he looks back up, catches his eye. He just holds him there, pinned with his gaze like a dare as he works Rhett’spants back open, this time far less careful about not touching.

Rhett groans softly at the feel of Link’s knuckles brushing against his cock through the sheer fabric of the panties. He doesn’t get the opportunity to say anything else, Link’s expression clearly telling him to hush, before Link sinks to the floor.

Those jeans follow suit, peeled off his long thighs until they’re bunched up around his knees. _These fucking panties._ That’s what started all of this. It’s easier to focus on that, on the panties, and to pretend the focus isn’t on what’s under them. Isn’t on Rhett. Even here, kneeling in front of Rhett, tearing into his jeans with the intention to do what he’s about to do, he hasn’t admitted to himself just what’s really going on here. It’s easier that way if he doesn’t look his desire dead in the eye, if he doesn’t think too much about it. He just acts, lets the impulse drive him blindly.

His fingers twist up in the lace that separates them and yanks them down unceremoniously, eagerly, watching as Rhett’s cock spring free. It’s not the first he’s seen it. The phone call, the texts hadn’t been the first he’d seen it either. They joke about indirect eye contact, but there’s more to that story as there is with so many of the things they say in passing. This is the first he’s seen it this close, though, the first he’s really let himself look.

Rhett’s staring down at Link, eyes wide. Is this really happening? Is Link _seriously_ going to? Rhett’s reeling, can’t figure out how the hell they’d gotten here from where they’d started. From Rhett texting a picture of the panties to mess with Link. From the fight that started when he’d walked in the door.

Rhett is barely breathing, afraid that if he says or does anything that Link will stop. Link is volatile when he’s angry, when he’s worked up. Worse when he’s afraid and on the edge of something he doesn’t wanna admit he’s nervous about. Rhett doesn’t think he’s seen him quite this bad in years, wild-eyed, single minded, determined and with that undercurrent of anger.

Link’s hands are shaking, but he’ll be damned if Rhett says something about that now. He spares a glance up that doesn’t quite meet his eyes but gives a warning nonetheless, tells Rhett he’d be smart to shut the hell up.

He curls his hand around the base of Rhett’s cock while the other finds a hold on his hip. Link swallows thickly and gives him a slow stroke. Rhett’s breath shudders. Just like the other night, the sheer lace is bunched up beneath his cock, just barely out of the way and so incongruous. He doesn’t know what it is about the lace that does something to him, but it does. Lights something in him he never would have expected or known if not for that first picture Rhett sent that night.

He’s found other things that flip that switch in him, recently, and all of them have come out when he was side by side with Rhett. Spanking, getting messy, pain, wearing women’s clothes… unexpected, all of it. And all of it had been okay, had stayed obediently beneath the surface, explored on GMM and in More and then tucked away and ignored, until this. Until Rhett had sent him that fucking picture and blew the doors wide open.

Link’s never done this before, but he’s thought about it. How he’s managed to think about this while simultaneously denying that he wants it is unfathomable, but this is Link after all. All through texting, through sending dirty pictures back and forth, pushing for more, a little bit further, he’d thought about this. About being on his knees in front of Rhett, about getting his hands on him, his mouth. Then when Link’d called him, that video call, he kept telling him to slow down, let the way he touched himself guide Rhett’s hand. All the while, Link had wanted to be that hand or mouth. Wanted that control, wanted to cut away the middleman and take over. There’s a vulnerability to it too, one that’s as undeniable now as it had been then when it was just snapping a picture or hitting send.

He guides it to his mouth and presses a kiss there to the head like a hello, face flushed, self-conscious like he’s doing it wrong somehow. That nagging fear starts to dissipate almost instantly when Rhett’s head falls back against the wall at just that first brush and lets out a shaky moan. That feels good to hear, to know that just this has him this affected. Link’s tongue flicks out to taste, to drag over the sensitive skin and he automatically decides he doesn’t like the taste but also that that’s not going to stop him. After all the genuinely awful things that Link’s put in his mouth and managed to get down, this wasn’t going to be what he shied away from.

He takes him in until his lips brush his fingers, curled at the base and gives another slow stroke. He’s nowhere near taking too much, but this is the sort of blowjob he’s accustomed to getting, half hand and half mouth. He’s not a small man and neither is Rhett -- actually, Rhett’s thicker -- but his mouth is huge and he knows it. He’s bragged about it on more than one occasion, compared it to Rhett’s, pushed its capacity to the limit… he knows what he can handle, even if he’s never tried to _handle_ something like this.

He uncurls his hand and lets it rub over Rhett’s hip, enough pressure to be a warning to stay still, and leans in to take more, as much as he can. Feels the head of his cock brush up against the roof of his mouth, the shivery feeling of _almost too much_ as it nudges the back of his throat. There’s a little rush, a thrill at that he wants to chase. Above him, Rhett makes this strangled sound and Link casts his attention upward, this time not even a little too shy to look him in the eye.

Rhett looks like he doesn’t know what to do with this, with any of it. It had gone so fast from fighting to fucking that his head’s still spinning and he doesn’t know where to put his hands, so they’re hovering up awkwardly because the last he’d tried to touch Link he’d been shoved off. The message was clear, _shut up_ so he’s trying to stay as quiet as he can for fear that saying something will bring this screeching to a halt.

A little sadistically, Link likes the power he clearly has over Rhett. The effect he has on him. The fact that he’s the one on his knees but Rhett’s the one losing his mind. It might not look it from the outside, but there’s no question who’s in control here.

Link reaches up and grabs one of Rhett’s hands from where it’s hovering and pulls it down, guides it to his head, urges his fingers into his hair and shivers. He needs it, needs the connection, the feedback of it. Rhett’s other hand finds its way and smooths Link’s hair back from his forehead, dragging through his hair with light nails. He doesn’t ask and he doesn’t hesitate, but maybe he should have given how tenuous this feels, before tugging Link’s glasses off of his face and setting them on his own.

If Link’s mouth weren’t occupied, he might smirk at that move. But then Link starts to move and Rhett’s fingers curl tight in his hair instinctively, wanting to tug, urge more of what he likes, what’s good, but trying to hold back from that. Trying to be easy. Link apparently won’t have any of that. The point of Rhett’s hands on him was to serve as a guide, to fill in the blanks here because he’s going on what he knows and all he knows is what he’s received. He needs to feel Rhett’s hands, to hear him, to know if what he’s doing is good. If more is wanted or less, or different. So the more Rhett resists, the slower Link goes, dragging his lips up Rhett’s cock agonizingly slow like he’s moving to pull off of him. He expects Rhett to stop him, expects his hands to fist in his hair and yank him back down but it never happens. Link pulls off of him with a soft, wet sound and takes the moment to catch his breath, eyes cast up. He’s just about to say something, lips dragging over the silky smooth skin of the head of his cock while he tries to settle on just what, when Rhett seems to figure it out.

A big hand lays flat on the top of his head and guides him back in, fingertips digging in and the move is anything but easy. Link almost gags -- _almost_ \-- but groans instead, nose pressed against his skin. Fuck, yes, _that_.

“Fuck,” Rhett’s head hits the wall with a dull thud, but then he’s looking down again. Can’t bear to look away because Jesus Christ, Link is deep throating him. He’s fucking incredible.

It starts to unravel fast, Rhett guiding him too roughly and Link letting it happen, picking up the slack and going hard when Rhett’s focus fizzes in and out, when he gets lost. He’s a mess, they both are, but Link’s got tears in his eyes, saliva drooling down his chin and he doesn’t care. He’s greedy for more, wants Rhett to come. Wants him to come for him, just like last time, with his name on his lips but this time with his cock down his throat.

“Oh God, I’m gonna…” Rhett’s fingers curl tight in Link’s hair, hold him where he is for a long second, pressed up tight against his body. He hears Link make this sound somewhere between a cough and gagging, this wet, awful sound that he definitely shouldn’t like. But he does.

“Sorry, sorry,” he stammers, letting up, petting his hand through his hair, but Link… doesn’t move. He stays right there, pressed up against him, choking himself on Rhett’s cock and slowly looks up his body at him. The look in his eyes is dark and tells him he shouldn’t be sorry, and he definitely shouldn’t stop. Incase he missed the memo, Link grabs his wrist and puts his hand back where it had been.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Rhett can hardly get the words out, like he forgot how to, trying to talk on the in breath instead of the out, and his hand curls _tight_ in Link’s hair. Holds him right where he wants to be held, where he’s staying put, demanding.

When he comes seconds later it’s with Link’s name stammered and punctuated with a hard moan, and it’s overwhelming. If Link wasn’t there he’d collapse to the floor, knees buckling beneath him. But Link’s not letting that happen, supporting him as much as he’s doing anything else. Rhett apparently hasn’t learned his lesson because he tries again, tries to let Link pull off enough that he’s not coming down his throat but Link isn’t having any of that. Holds his hip tight and stays close enough that he does exactly that. It’s like he’s got something to prove, to Rhett or himself, like he wants to make this as hard as he can. Like he should be punished for wanting this. The sounds he makes as he takes it are obscene and hard to hear, but it’s not stopping Rhett and somewhere mingled in them is a low, guttural groan lost around his cock.

He can still taste Rhett when he rocks back and stands up, when he squares off with him again, standing at his full height like he’s trying to stare Rhett down and intimidate him. There’s a second there where Rhett’s not sure what’s going to happen here, if he’s going to kiss him again maybe, or try his hand at hitting him for real. Instead, Link takes his glasses back and sets them on his face.

“Put your pants back on,” he says, not for the first time today, voice rough and raw from the use his throat had seen. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth to clean himself up and casts one last glance down, at Rhett’s slowly deflating cock and the bunched up lace beneath it.

Then he turns, not before Rhett can clock the bulge straining the front of Link’s own pants, and stalks across the office to his desk chair and snatches up the panties that were sitting there. The panties that started this. Giving Rhett one last look over his shoulder, he stuffs them into his pocket, picks up his work bag and car keys, and leaves.


	4. Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link leaves with his keys after the encounter in the office. Rhett realizes Link was his ride home. The drive is tense, to say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank yous to annabelle_leigh/@usefulmammal and @withasideofcrazy for their help with encouragement and editing. <3

Rhett stands there in shock and watches as Link leaves the office, slowly realizing that Link’s got the car keys. 

That means he’s going home. 

That’d be bad enough on its own after what had just happened between them and so much still left unspoken, but it’s compounded by the fact that Link had driven him this morning. If Link goes and leaves Rhett behind, he’s got to figure out an alternate way home. It means he’s got to bum a ride with Stevie or call Jessie when he looks like _this_ , disheveled and obvious and almost certainly smelling like sex. That… that’s not something he can deal with just yet. It doesn’t matter that he knows what Jessie’d say, that she’s already given him explicit permission, thanks to one too-drunk night when he’d told her everything, the decades he’d spent wanting in silence.

She knows how he feels, how long he’s felt like this… but with how this was turning out, he can’t face her yet. Not to talk about this. He needs to sort it out first, needs to work it out with Link, if that’s even possible.

Rhett puts himself back on autopilot, panties up, jeans up, zipped and buttoned and he grabs his jacket and he’s out the office door like a shot, maybe a minute behind Link, probably less. When he steps out the back door into the lot, he sees the cruiser across the way with the running lights on. Link’s not gone yet, but he will be before long. 

Rhett opens the door and slides into the passenger side seat without warning. It’s clear Link hadn’t been expecting him, judging by the sudden flurry of movement. He doesn’t quite see what was going on, but he doesn’t need to to get a good sense of what he’d stepped into. Link’s stuffing one hand in his pocket and the other jumps to the shifter so damn fast it reads as guilty. _Caught_. 

“Get outta the car,” Link says. 

Fuck, but his voice is still harsh, raw from going down on him. If Rhett could get hard again so soon, he would be just because of that. 

“You drove us this morning,” Rhett says as he buckles himself into the seat. He eyes Link’s lap sidelong, trying to see his crotch without being obvious, but they’re so beyond obvious.

Link closes his eyes, jaw clenched because he knows Rhett’s right. He’s got options, knows he could throw him out of the car and make him figure it out, but the weight of what’s just happened is heavy on him. He’s not keen to be found out and he feels like they will be if they don’t drive home like usual, if someone else sees him looking the way he looks. What they’ve done feels as though it’s written on their faces, _obvious_ , and he’s got to think about damage control. 

“ _Fine_ ,” Link throws the car in reverse and pulls out of the parking space and then the lot.

The drive is silent so Link turns music on the radio, something to cut the tension between them and detract from the fact that they’re not speaking to each other. It’s a few notches louder than it would be if they were driving and talking, loud enough that it ends up just drawing attention to the fact that Link is upset. 

Whether he’s upset at Rhett or at himself, it’s hard to say. He’s keeping his eyes on the road, keeping his hands on the wheel, and he’s sure as hell not paying any mind to _Rhett_. He’s definitely not thinking about the taste of him still sharp on his tongue or the ache in his throat and his pants. Not about the way Rhett had looked and sounded as he came apart against the wall in their office. 

But he _is_ thinking about it. This has been something he hasn’t been able to face, but that’s never meant it was something he didn’t think about. Because oh, he’s thought about it.

Link’s just always pushed those thoughts away as soon as they’d come, told himself it was okay to think them as long as he didn’t entertain them. But somewhere along the way, the dam broke. Somewhere between that night with the the text messages and ten minutes ago in their office, he’d stopped being able to shrug this off like it was nothing. _Nothing_ had never brought him to his knees.

The silence stretches on beyond the point where Rhett feels like he could say something and fix it. They’ve had fights before, days spent not talking, but it’s never felt like this does. Rhett’s trying to think of ways he could broach the elephant in the room, or rather, the car, and failing. His mind just keeps cycling through everything that’s happened and how out of control this feels, how out of control _he_ feels. He’s never thought they were close to losing their friendship before this, but right now Rhett can’t shake the fear that they’d pushed this so far it had broken. 

As they navigate to the 134, the traffic starts to slow, bumper to bumper. Rhett’s eyes dart to the clock between them, just shortly after five, so it’s no wonder the highway is packed. They _should_ have taken the 2, and Rhett’s considering opening his mouth to say as much when, glancing over, he sees Link’s hand slip down between his thighs to adjust himself. 

Link’s just as hard as he had been leaving the office twenty minutes prior, that much is clear as Rhett watches him trying desperately and discreetly to make his erection more comfortable in his pants. He lost points on the discreet front when his hand lingered just a little too long, wistful for a moment alone. 

Rhett’s mouth goes absolutely dry and he wipes his palms down the thigh of his jeans, reflexively, to dry the sweat. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to touch more in his life. It supersedes everything, skips right over all the reasons why this is a bad idea. In that moment there’s no thought spared for all that’s already gone wrong and what they stand to lose, all he can see is the hard proof that despite Link’s steadfast silence that might suggest otherwise, he’s still aroused. 

What happened in the office happened without conversation or explicit consent, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t wanted. It was pretty apparent from the way Rhett staged the confrontation that he’d wanted to bring the tension between them to a head. But with Link it’s different. Link’s harder to read, and Rhett knows he’s still working through this, still trying to make sense of what he wanted and what that meant. 

Rhett reaches over and lays his hand on Link’s thigh. Like he’s done hundreds of times platonically, but this time, it’s a silent request for permission. The meaning is clear enough, his hand hot and heavy and aching to rub higher. Rhett’s all but expecting Link to recoil, and he’s surprised when instead, Link groans, his eyes closing briefly while hands squeeze the steering wheel tight once, twice, before his grip loosens. One hand falls to his lap and guides Rhett’s to where he really wants it, right between his thighs. 

It sends as clear a message as if he’d asked for it out loud. 

Rhett palms him thoroughly through his pants. Christ, he can feel the shape of him, hot through the soft fabric. He's torn between maneuvering his cock free and carrying on like this, but he wants so badly to touch him. He's thinking back to that night they'd spent jerking off alone together and how it had felt like more, the blur of their connection was confusing whose hand belonged to whose body. 

That’s not the case now. It’s clear as day that it's not his own cock under his hand. The reality of it being Link’s cock under his hand hits Rhett hard, and he can’t shake the fear that Link’s going to change his mind, push him away, and he’ll have to let go. 

But that's not happening yet. Far from it, Link's hand still lingers over Rhett’s like a guiding force. He wants to feel Rhett feel him, wants his hand to take the shapes Rhett's does as he touches him because he can't watch. Because his eyes have to stay on the road. 

Rhett's big hand takes up a lot of real estate, feels like it's everywhere all at once. Long fingers stroke down, cup and rub his balls, move smoothly back up into a slow kneading stroke, the best he can do through all that fabric. And judging by Link's increasingly labored, halting breath and the white knuckle grip of the wheel, _the best he can do_ still has him on edge.

Rhett can’t take his eyes off Link. If this is the only chance he’ll get to have his hands on him like this, he wants to drink it in. If this is all he’ll ever get, it’ll have to carry him through the rest of his life. So every halting breath and hard-won soft sound, every tremor of his thighs as Rhett’s hand works... he commits it all to memory. 

If this much is good for Link, he wants it to be better, wants to give him more. Rhett shifts his hand up to try and open his pants but Link catches his wrist, stops him and puts his hand right back down where it had been over his pants. Link wants it just like this. 

Is it dirtier like this or with his cock out? Maybe Link's afraid to he seen in this stop and go traffic, unlikely as it is given the angle of the car. 

Link guides his hand down lower, urges him to cup and feel, to fondle and squeeze. When Rhett's focus is back and it's clear he's not thinking about sliding his hand down the front of his pants again, Link lets up on guiding and lets him lead. Just follows, just feels the veins along the the back of Rhett’s hand as he works him over. It’s an awkward angle with his non-dominant hand, but there isn’t a universe in which he’d consider stopping even for a second. He just keeps on with his fingers, the heel of his hand, more grinding than jerking because he can’t get a grip, can’t wrap his hand around him properly without getting a hand down his pants. It’s makeshift and desperate, a stand in for how Rhett really wants to touch him and for what Link really wants. It’s almost and not quite enough but at the moment it’s all they can afford, it’s as far as Link is willing to bend. 

Maybe it’s all Link feels he deserves. An extension of earlier, how he’d pushed himself so that going down on Rhett was as much giving as it was taking. Almost punishment around the edges. Here, if Link wants it badly enough, he’ll have to take his pleasure out of what he’s allowing himself to have. 

Just like that first night on the sofa with their phones and their cocks in their hands, Rhett wants to hear him. He wants to see him come, wants to experience it, to feel it in his bones and let it become a part of him. He feels as though Link’s getting closer, recognizes what he thinks are tells in how Link starts breathing hard, how he starts to move. It’s subtle, but he’s squirming, hips moving to bring himself into better contact with Rhett’s big hand, to grind down in the seat to make up for how this isn’t enough. 

Link squeezes the steering wheel and fights for silence as the traffic lets up. He’s slow to remember to put his foot on the gas, and when he does he’s cautious, keeps the speed low, anticipating the next snap of traffic. The next time he’s going to have to lean on the brakes. 

They should hit the brakes here, too. It’s dangerous for more reasons than just this wordless thing they’re skirting, there’s the reality of the car and the traffic, stop and go, the real possibility of Link accidentally rear ending the car in front of them. But stopping is the last thing on their minds. 

Maybe it’s not a good idea to push this any more than he already is, but Rhett’s not sure he can get Link off like this and he _has to get him off like this_ , and on impulse he moves. Pulls his hand away despite Link’s desperate grab to keep it there, and replaces it with his other hand, twisting in his seat to reach. Left elbow leaned into the center console, he’s pressing into Link’s space. It’s never been a problem before. Too close didn’t exist for them, sitting knee to knee and side to side day in and day out, but somehow this hits the radar. It pings as too close, dangerously close, like at this distance the air between them could ignite. Shoulder to shoulder with Rhett’s hand glued between Link’s thighs, anything could happen. 

Link’s hand finds Rhett’s again, Link’s left over his right and if there was a question about whether or not this was still okay, still wanted, it’s put to rest. With this angle, this hand, Rhett’s better able to touch him. Through his pants, he strokes along the shape of his cock and if he’s not imagining it he can feel the dampness starting to leak through the layers that separate them. It’s not helped by the clamminess of his hands, how badly he aches to touch skin. 

Rhett wants to say something, wants to echo what they’d said that night. Tell Link he wants to see him, hear him, tell him to come. To say his name. But the tension holds his tongue, the fear that speaking will break the spell. That if he says something, the hand that’s laying over his will push him away instead of tug him closer. In his mind he’s saying it, over and over like he could project the thought into Link’s mind, like if he thinks it loud or hard enough that Link will hear it. 

_Come on, Link. I want to watch you fall apart, trying, failing to keep it together. Damn you, I want to hear you come._

Rhett bites the inside of his cheek to hold his tongue. 

Link’s reaction is so visceral that Rhett’s afraid that he’d said something out loud, but he hadn’t. Link’s just… shaking, gasping, holding Rhett’s wrist in a vice grip like he’s afraid Rhett’s going to fucking _stop._ Link’s eyes are locked on the road ashe hits the brakes and brings the car to a full stop in the gridlocked traffic. His head falling back against the headrest hard enough there’s a soft thud. 

That’s when he moans, when Link loses the silent war he’d been waging with himself, to keep everything he’s feeling wrapped up tight inside. He’s starting to break apart at the seams, and where there’s cracks, he’s starting to give himself away. 

Truth is, he’d never quite been good at hiding much from Rhett for long. This thing is the biggest thing he’s kept secret, and the longest, and he’d only been able to because he’d kept it from himself, first and foremost. If Link had known, if he’d looked at this head on and given it a name, he never could’ve kept it from Rhett. 

His head hits the headrest again and he’s grinding his foot down into the brake pedal as he comes, hard, in his pants. Rhett can feel it, the way his cock pulses beneath his hand, through the fabric of his pants. The warmth, the dampness. More than that, the tension in Link’s body, the stutter of his breath, the warm flush of his skin. That small groan he can’t stifle.

It’s an image that’s going to be seared into Rhett’s mind until his dying day, unless old age steals his memory first. 

The car behind them honks to alert them that the traffic is going again. Eyes open, Link looks startled to realize he’s in the car, expected to be driving. All at once, then, there’s a shift. He lets go of Rhett’s hand and Rhett takes that hand back, pulls out of Link’s space. Driving again, Link’s hand dips back down to tug at his pants to make them a little less obscene, at his shirt to conceal the wet mess he’s made, but it’s a moot point. The damage has been done, they both intimately know exactly what’s just happened. 

The rest of the ride is silent but for the radio. 

A lot of the time they ride together in silence, but this is different. For Rhett, the silence feels like distance, it sits heavy in his throat like so much left unsaid. How he manages to gets all the way inside his house before the tears come is a miracle. 

How Link manages to wait until Rhett’s out of the car to let out everything he’d kept such a tight hold of, all the fear and anger, is a miracle, too. 


	5. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more this happens, the less they say to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big THANK YOU to both withasideofcrazy from tumblr and missingparentheses from ao3/tumblr for their help betaing this. <3

If you watch them closely in life and on screen, the distance between them ebbs and flows like the tide. Sometimes they're so close it's hard to know where one ends and the other begins. So close you have to wonder if one’s using the other as a crutch, for support, if leaning against each other had a purpose outside of the obvious connection. 

But sometimes they keep a distance, jumping apart like they’d just discovered the other one’s made of fire. The gravity between them is cosmic, rhythmic. Or Rhett had always thought it was. Maybe hoped it was. Hoped that when the space between them grows, that it's cyclical, just a matter of time until they line up again, until they're back in sync. 

Maybe they can't be what Rhett wishes they could be, but at least what they _are_ is inevitable. It's not that he takes this for granted, but he's grown accustomed to the way of things. Link's going to be there the same as his right hand will be — that certain, that sure. 

But the rhythm is off now. The ebbing tide has been out too long and shows no sign of rolling back in. Rhett feels off-kilter for it, like his arm’s been cut off, like he's lost a piece of himself. 

The distance is slow to bridge, and when it does it feels _off._ Mismatched, like the two halves of their whole aren't the same shape anymore. Rhett wonders if they ever were. He tells himself he’s satisfied with what they have, with whatever Link’s willing to give him, but he's always held out hope for more. But what if Link doesn't want that, isn't capable of _more?_

Finally, the tide comes back in uneasily. They go through the motions, bumping shoulders and knees when they walk and sit side by side, the little brushes and touches coming back slow, tense but present. There's restraint and uncertainty, and that's obvious to everyone around them too. Like they're both trying to find the rhythm, but both afraid it's already irretrievably lost. 

On the surface, things are back to more or less normal before too long. They go to work, they film the show, they run development meetings, and they go back home. Life goes on the way it does, time marching heartlessly on in spite of the gravitational pull that only brings them close enough to be aware of how far apart really are.

It’s late one night when Rhett’s phone is on vibrate and it buzzes on the end table.

Who could be calling him at this hour? It’s past eleven and he shouldn’t even be awake, by rights. The kids are in their rooms and Jessie’s upstairs, too. He’d told her he was on his way up about twenty minutes earlier, and he thinks for a second maybe it’s her, checking to see if he’s ever gonna come join her. 

Reaching for his phone, he sees that he’s wrong. It’s Link. 

Rhett swipes to answer the call and there’s that telltale _click_ as the call engages, followed by silence.

“It’s late for a call, man, what’s going on?” Rhett says instead of _hello_ , because they never do. Each new conversation just picks up where the last one stopped, no real beginning or end. Even still, even with this weird distance that’s been growing between them. 

But there’s no answer, and after a silent beat, Rhett asks, “Link?” 

There’s nothing. Nothing but a quiet rustling like fabric or motion of some kind. 

“I think maybe you butt dialed me or somethin’, brother...” 

Pause. “I’m gonna go, I dunno if you can even hear me,” Rhett hears himself talking to the no-one there. Talking to the soft rustling sounds on the other end of the line, like they’re Link. Like Link can hear him through the pocket of his jeans.

Rhett’s about to hang up the phone and shoot off a text to Link about how he maybe ought to try and be more careful when he thinks he hears a moan. 

Maybe he heard it wrong. Maybe he was mistaken. That’s gotta be it. He’s almost convinced that he’d imagined it, but he still can’t find it in him to end the call. Instead, he stays quiet and listens, tries to catch a telltale sound again. A breath, a moan, anything that might explain what's going on here. Maybe, he thinks, Link accidentally hit the phone while he and Christy…? But somehow, even as he thinks it, he knows that's not the case. 

When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more hesitant. He’s half afraid to say something and half afraid of saying nothing at all. If he says something, he might snap them out of whatever's starting to happen and back to reality, but if he doesn't there's a chance this all stops anyway.

“Link, what are you-” Rhett starts and stops, doesn’t get the chance to get anything else out before he’s interrupted. 

This time, there’s no mistaking the sound he hears. It’s a low moan and quick breath through the earpiece, and somehow it feels like he can feel that warm air against his skin. 

It’s not hard to let his mind wander, to begin to imagine what might be happening on the other end of the phone. He can hardly believe it though, that Link’s _in the middle of something_ and called him _during._ But that’s what it seems this is. 

Rhett doesn’t do anything at first. He just listens as those first soft, shy moans slowly give way to more. Gasps and uneven breathing, and though he still hasn't said a word, there’s voice enough in the soft sounds he’s making that there’s no question in Rhett’s mind that it’s Link on the line. 

Rhett’s silent and straining to hear everything there is to, every soft gasp, every shuddering moan. He doesn’t dare say anything else, barely dares to _breathe_ for fear of not being able to hear the little sounds Link’s making.

It’s growing more and more obvious what’s happening. He’d never imagined Link would do anything like this. Even after the texts they'd shared, the FaceTime phone call, he wouldn't have put money on Link making this kind of move. Initiating without provocation, without a back and forth beforehand. Especially not after the way things had gone the other day in their office, how badly he'd reacted, how upset he was at Rhett for pushing and refusing to yield. 

God, does Rhett want to be there right now. He wants to see what he’s doing and _know,_ rather than just guess at it. He’s imagining it not too unlike the first night, Link with his hand down the front of his pants, working himself up with steady, slow strokes. 

Why had he called? Rhett tells himself it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he had, that they’re here now, that Link’s on the other end with his soft, shuddering breaths and the tell-tale rustle of fabric. Rhett can imagine how he’d look, his mind filling in the blanks with all he already knows. The way his hand looks wrapped around his hard cock from the FaceTime call, the way his face goes flushed blotchy when he’s aroused and ashamed like he’d been in their office, in the car.

There’s a wet sound. It's soft, muffled. It's hard to tell if what he thinks is happening is happening. It’s gotta just be lotion or lube or something in his fist as he works himself over, makes it easier, reduces the friction on his cock. But somehow he knows that's not what's going on. 

There it is again, that same sound. Wetter than the slick fapping sound of a hand on a cock. Instinctively he knows, but he can't bring himself to dare believe it. He's holding his breath, desperate to hear it again, every ounce of his being tuned in to that sound. And there it is again, finally loud enough to be heard over the rustling, the breath, almost lost beneath the agonized sound Link makes.

Rhett knows enough to tell the difference. He's heard Link come now, twice. Once over the phone and once in person and both experiences are etched into his memory like stone, permanent and ready to be recalled in the moment when he needs some fuel for the fire. But this isn't like either of those times. The way Link sounds is… different. More desperate, more affected, almost pained. Like he wants something he barely knows how to get, like he's not sure if what he's doing is enough to get him where he needs to go. 

It's squelching, that's the word Rhett's looking for to describe the sound he hears. He's had enough sex to know that a hand on a cock, no matter how wet, doesn't make the sound he's hearing. That’s the sound of being fucked.

_Oh god._

Is he using his fingers? Something else? The possibility of Link using something other than his own hands on himself is more than he can handle. He needs to know but he can't ask, can't risk this whole thing coming crashing to the ground. 

Up till this point, Rhett's just been sitting, listening. One hand holding the phone, the other gripping vice-tight on his thigh. Listening and feeling the answering pulse of his own arousal building low in his belly, lower, until the ache to join in and touch himself is too great to resist. 

Rhett can't get his hand on his cock fast enough. He rushes to tuck the phone up between his ear and his shoulder to free his hands to open his jeans, and only then does he dart a look around the living room. He can’t do this here, where anyone could walk in and witness him sitting on the sofa with his hand down his pants. Jeans half undone, he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way to the downstairs bathroom as fast as he’s able to, holding his jeans up as he goes, shutting and locking the door behind himself, just in case. 

He makes a snap decision between the toilet and the shower, lifting the seat and lid in one swift motion before shouldering the phone again, freeing himself from his jeans with a squeeze and a long, slow stroke. He wants to keep quiet so he can hear Link but he can't meter his breath. Can Link hear him, can he tell he's touching himself too? He wants to tell him, describe exactly what it is he's doing, and ask Link what _he's_ doing. How he's touching himself, what he's using. 

Words aren't exchanged but somehow they still feed off each other. Link has to have heard his breath quicken, if the answering whine that comes is any indication. 

Rhett almost speaks. Almost asks him what he's doing, asks if he's right. _Are you fucking yourself?_ He almost says it a half dozen times, feels the words on his tongue, works himself up to it only to think better of it. He'd rather let it happen unspoken than remove the questions he has and lose the opportunity to have this altogether. If Rhett can’t have Link the way he wants him, he’ll take him anyway he can get him. 

Link's breathing hard. There’s sound in his breath, growing fitful and fretting. He knows how vocal he is, how vocal he can be. Making demands and guiding the pace, _slower, say my name_ , but somehow every time this happens they get further from each other. They communicate less, left to fill in the blank spaces in between.

It started with text, clearly stated _I want to watch you come_ and they've moved backwards through provocation in place of communication, the tension growing between them because it was never about the acts that they could or couldn't articulate the want for. It was everything beneath that, it was what it meant. What was at stake between them. It was what they had to lose. 

They've retreated so far backwards that there's this overwhelming silence between them, a silence that, with moans and panting breath crashing through their phones like thunder, still manages to be deafening. 

Rhett's all twisted up in this. Every passing second, every sound Link makes pulls the bottom out on something he'd kept wound up too tight. Without Link watching through the phone, without him at his feet on his knees, there's a freedom — a letting go. He's free to feel, to curl his free hand up tight in a fist where it braces him against the wall, legs spread as much as his half-undone jeans will let him while his hand races over his cock. 

He's coming apart. He wonders how much of that Link can hear over the phone, if he can hear the sound his hand makes as he works himself over, jerks himself off quick and dirty over the toilet bowl. 

He wants Link to hear everything he’s doing, too, hopes that he can. He hopes he can tell that somewhere along the way he’d gotten a palm full of lotion from the sink to ease the strokes... to make it sound wetter, dirtier, more obvious. It’s nothing like the sounds he still hears from Link’s side, amping up faster and faster, these deep slick-wet sounds, the filthy sucking sound of an orifice unwilling to weather the outstroke to gain the next thrust. It sounds like Link can’t get fucked hard enough or filled full enough, what with the mix of sounds his body can’t help but make and the desperation voiced in his ragged breathing. 

Too often it feels like Link comes close to saying something, to breaking this wall of silence between them. Rhett’s willing him to, screaming inside his head for Link to just _say something. Anything at all_ , just cuss or something, _anything_. 

But he doesn’t. Fuck, the closest he comes is wrapping his breath around this harsh _‘oh’_ sound that hits Rhett like a sucker punch to the gut. It sounds like he’s being railed, like he’s starting to get it the way he needs it, hard and deep and fast. Rhett’s imagining how fast Link’s hand is moving between his thighs while he races him, Rhett’s hand flying over his cock, striving to do his part to finish together.

But there’s no way in hell that’s happening. 

Link's way too close to keep going much further. He manages not to utter a word, but that doesn't mean he doesn't _almost._ That as he’s starting to come apart there aren’t moments where a gasp or a moan starts to take the shape of a word. Knowing him the way Rhett does — having brought him off once with his own hands, having heard and seen him then — he can see him in his mind's eye twisting and writhing on the sheets, arm strained from the work of fucking himself, muscles taut and thrown into harsh relief as he curls in on himself to reach more, to protect himself, to let go. 

Rhett knows when Link comes. He can feel it without needing to be told, in the tension that’s been building that shatters like the brittle thing it was. It’s in the shift of his breath rising to a wild crescendo like something somewhere hurts too much or not enough, the agony of overstimulation or longing. That wet erratic fucking sound slows at first to carry him through, to punch out the last few seconds of bliss and wring his body dry, and then it falls off all at once, and all Rhett can think about is whether he’d just stopped or if his body wound up tight like a vice and kept him from fucking himself through it. 

There are a few heart stopping moments of complete silence, no sound no nothing, like all the air had gone out of the room, until he hears Link breathing against his ear through the phone to catch up, to calm down. 

Rhett's not sure Link will carry on listening, after. He half expects Link to end the call. In that moment when Link came apart, loud then silent in turns, Rhett realizes he's all but stopped moving, stopped breathing, like his existence somehow hinged on Link’s. 

But Link’s still on the line. 

There are moments he can’t quite tell, but here and there he can hear the soft hum of his breath against his ear that reminds him he’s there. 

He falls back into this like he’d stepped off the ledge, like he’d thrown himself in headlong and let go of whatever was still holding him back. His hand is racing over his cock and his forehead is pressed against the back of his hand curled into a fist, held tight against the tiled wall behind the toilet. He’s pouring himself into his fist, almost more fucking his fist than he’s stroking himself, and it’s not enough. Nowhere close to enough, because it’s his hand and not Link’s big hands, not his hot mouth, or the wet, eager ass he’d barely satisfied with a toy or fingers sprawled out on the bed in his guest room or god knows where. 

When Rhett comes, he comes hard, but it’s the kind of orgasm you regret the instant the first wave crashes and the build up is gone. It hits like that moment in a falling dream when the falling stops, when the dream ends, abrupt and unsatisfying. 

That’s when the silence hits like the line’s gone dead, and he’s standing there with his dick in his hand having come in the toilet bowl, straining to hear if Link’s still there breathing to him like some variation of morse code they passed back and forth in high school. The both of them are straining to hear and neither of them are saying anything. 

When Rhett shifts his phone to his hand from his shoulder, he sees the call ended, though he hadn't hit end.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for liking, commenting and subscribing. :)


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